


The Practice Yard

by Resoan



Series: Dragon Age Inquisition AU [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Pre Abelas/Fena'dea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-09 03:43:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3235001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Resoan/pseuds/Resoan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fena'dea seeks a moment of peace amidst all the craziness at Skyhold, but Abelas finds himself drawn to the practice yard while she trains.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Practice Yard

If there were one thing certain to focus Fena'dea's mind and drown out the voices perpetually whispering at the edge of her thoughts, it was sure to be training. The elf had made her way down to the training dummies at midday: the sun gleaming high in the sky and puffs of white clouds trailing past lazily against a backdrop of bright, vibrant blue. Her armor had been left behind and instead Fena'dea had donned training leathers which had been gathering just a bit of dust at the bottom of a trunk at the foot of her bed. If that hadn't been a sign, Fena'dea didn't know what was.

Cassandra was nearby, grunting as she landed a solid blow, though she glanced Fena'dea's way only once before inclining her head and continuing. Fena'dea turned from the warrior and unsheathed her daggers, their familiar weight in her palms a comfort; the rogue whirled and twirled with the motions as one attack easily flowed into another, and another, and another. Iron Bull had once accused her of 'dancing with her daggers', and Fena'dea at the time had laughed heartily – had she seen the way she moved, she may have found room for common ground and agreement.

Sweat beaded at her brow as she trained, a few pieces of hair sticking to the back of her neck: it would require cutting soon. One of her daggers swiftly made a slashing arc across the dummy's would-be neck, though she turned on her heel and brought the other in an overhead motion as it followed with the momentum of her previous attack. Her chest heaved for much-needed air, and the very last person she expected to see – had been able to sense the footsteps approaching as she trained – was Abelas watching, curious and perhaps a touch disdainful, though anymore, that was a given.

The stoic sentinel did not seem nervous even by the blade's proximity to his throat, though golden eyes stared down at her own: unfathomable and deep. She breathed out audibly before pulling her dagger back and sheathing the pair of them in a fluid motion, an arm lifting to wipe away the sweat from her forehead; “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company again so soon?” Fena'dea asked, the corner of her lips twitching though she refused to smile.

Unsurprisingly, Abelas did not address her question directly; “You are a hunter, yet do not use a bow.” His lips pursed together as though it were a thought he'd been having trouble digesting lately, though Fena'dea could only part her lips and furrow her eyebrows.

“ _That's_ what confuses you?” she inquired, an eyebrow lifting and her head tilting disbelieving.

“The shemlen seem to be under the impression that elves, regardless of origin, favor bows. You were a hunter, presumably tasked with tracking and gathering prey for your people.”

“And you think a bow more...suited for the task, I suppose,” Fena'dea finished for him, and the rogue found herself caught off guard at the sheepish expression that flitted across the man's face – so quickly she'd scarcely have noticed it if she'd blinked. “Allow me to explain, then,” Fena'dea drawled, and she could see the exasperation in his eyes – he was already regretting bringing such a thing up. “I prefer to see the _fear_ in their eyes,” she told him, tone heavy with implication as she took a step closer. “To _smell_ the sweat on their brow.” Abelas did not step back even as Fena'dea took another step: this was a game of hers to be certain, a gambit to see how much he would tolerate before retreating, but he could match her stubbornness for stubbornness. “To _feel_ the warm blood on my hands, the _adrenaline_ as a wolf's jowls or bear's claws narrowly miss. There's simply no other feeling in the world like it.”

She was physically closer than Abelas would have preferred: likely closer in proximity than anyone else had ever been in a very, very long time; her purple eyes glinted daringly up at him, her lips a crooked smile, yet...Abelas could not bring himself to look away, not yet. _Gentle Sylaise indeed_ . This was no _gentle_ anything; Fena'dea was fierce and outspoken, and at first, it had grated on his nerves so he'd been sorely tempted to leave Tarasyl'an telas after only a few days. But despite her veneer of sarcasm, he'd found in her a willing student, and in the few blissfully silent moments she allowed between them, he discovered she was more thoughtful and pensive than he'd accredited her previously.

Fena'dea was the first to blink away, though she didn't move or step back – not yet; “Ah,” she chuckled, lips twisting until it was a smirk she wore. “I lied. Perhaps there is _one_ thing to compare, though I don't imagine you're terribly well-versed in that.” She allowed her words to linger in the air between them, and when she did not receive the reaction she desired from Abelas – not any reaction whatsoever, in point of fact – her brows creased and her smile dimmed however lightly. “I suppose I will see you in the garden later, Abelas. Do try not to be late.” Her japing tone was not nearly as implicative as it had been a moment ago, and as she strode past him, her hands wringing together and her arms stretching at her sides and even once or twice over her heard, slender tendrils of color caught his attention: dark teal peaked up from beneath her leathers just against her collarbones, though she was gone before he could do more than give a short-lived glance.

Eventually, the rogue was nowhere to be seen, and yet Abelas remained at the edge of the training yard: a veritable statue amidst training soldiers and loiterers who made a point of pretending he was not there. It seemed that no matter how many times Abelas vowed to himself not to be rattled by whatever Fena'dea might say or do, he inevitably failed; withholding his reactions was far easier than not having any at all, and it took Abelas several moments before breath came back to him easily and he was able to push inappropriate thoughts away to the point that they would not return a half-second later. “ _Na ne 'ma'din.”_ His voice was half a snarl, and he had to force down a swallow before the tension eased from his shoulders and he was finally able to turn away, but even then, an unbidden image of painted lines across Fena'dea's shoulders and collarbones refused to leave him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> 'Na ne 'ma'din' roughly translates to 'you will be the death of me'.


End file.
